


Take It As It Comes / The Bright Side

by irisbleufic



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brothers, Family, M/M, References to Illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-01
Updated: 2011-08-01
Packaged: 2018-01-02 06:39:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1053683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>John comes home to the sound of Sherlock murdering his violin, which makes him wonder for the briefest of moments if Mycroft is there.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take It As It Comes / The Bright Side

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written and posted to LJ in August of 2011.

 

**Take It As It Comes**

John comes home to the sound of Sherlock murdering his violin, which makes him wonder for the briefest of moments if Mycroft is there.

By the time he reaches the top of the stairs, however, he knows that his deduction is erroneous: there are no voices punctuating the cacophony, and there is no umbrella propped outside the door.  Small mercies, he supposes.

"Rough day?" he asks on his way in, but the playing (if you can call it that) continues.

It takes John about fifteen minutes to realize that something is really wrong, during which time he manages to put away the shopping and resist asking what on earth is with the plethora of halved citrus fruits (he identifies grapefruit, lime, lemon, and several varieties of oranges before giving up) on the table. It's the persistent choppiness that does it, the way Sherlock seems stuck on the same eight notes, which form an undeniably agonized sequence. The violin sounds like it's choking.

John stands in the kitchen doorway and watches Sherlock reproduce the sequence twice more before striding over to his chair and reaching across the short space to catch the bow mid-strike. Sherlock starts, as if from a trance, and stares at him.

"Are you going to tell me?" John asks. "Or are you going to make me guess?"

"If you'd had the sense to hack into my email, you wouldn't have to guess."

"We can't all be password-cracking wizards. Out with it."

Sherlock lowers both violin and bow in a curious attitude of defeat.

"Mycroft's test results came back," he says.

John frowns. "What was it, a colonoscopy and tissue sample?"

"How touching, you remembered," replies Sherlock, acidly. "It's cancer."

John feels his stomach sink, and he can't help but think there's something a bit fucked up about experiencing alarm when one's regular kidnapper has been diagnosed with a potentially fatal illness, even if said kidnapper is the brother of one's lover.

"Right," he says, rubbing his forehead. "How far along?"

"Early days yet. They've caught it in plenty of time to begin treatment."

The sinking feeling is replaced by a flood of relief. "That's good," John says, mustering his best reassuring doctor-to-patient smile. "He's not going to die, Sherlock, which—"

John stops, only just realizing how deeply profound a circumstance he's in.

"Don't say it!" Sherlock snaps, dropping his bow on the floor. "I'm well aware."

John nods, reaching across to take Sherlock's wrist.

"I won't," he said. "And we'll get through it."

Sherlock nods pensively at the floor.

"I hope so," he says, almost too quiet to be heard.

John kisses Sherlock's hand, then rises to put the kettle on.

 

**The Bright Side**

"Look on the bright side," John says several hours later, muzzily trying to follow his train of thought, but it's no use. Both train and track have hurtled into the void.

Sherlock is slumped beside him on the sofa, glowering at the half-empty bottle of Aberlour _a'bunadh_ (accept no substitutes) on the floor at their feet. He looks like he's either going to start laughing or be sick, but John can't really tell which.

"The bright side is that he'll have no choice about the diet," Sherlock says.

They both laugh until they're wheezing, clutching at their sides and at each other.

"Oh, God," says Sherlock, finally, gasping hot puffs into the shoulder of John's jumper. "That stuff's _vile_. You drink it often enough to _keep_ it? It's worse than paint thinner."

"And you'd know," John tells him, letting his head droop till their foreheads touch. Everything is too warm and too damp and too close, but Sherlock is something resembling drunk. At thirty pounds, the bottle's been well worth the result.

"It's sixty percent," Sherlock slurs, trying to straighten his sitting posture. "I could use it to sterilize the lab equipment at Bart's and they'd be none the wiser."

"I think they'd notice if you dumped it in the autoclave," John admits. Sherlock's lips are chapped and slightly parted and he's breathing hard, cheeks flushed, and, _fuck_ , if kissing him isn't the right response, then John doesn't know what _is_.

For a few blurry, panicked seconds, John is afraid that Sherlock's hands flying up to fist in his jumper indicate that he's about to be pushed off and abandoned in favor of more moody violin, but Sherlock makes an unexpected _mmmm_ sound and yanks John closer. Their front teeth clash, which sets off every nerve ending in John's alcohol-riddled body, but not even pain is sufficient to prevent him from attempting to pull Sherlock into his lap. It doesn't work. Sherlock's bottom half ends up on the floor, and they're giggling hopelessly into each other's mouths, almost apologetic.

"Don't they say it's supposed to get _better_?" Sherlock manages, crawling unsteadily up onto John. Both of them lose their balance, and it's a miracle they stay on the sofa.

Five minutes on, they're kissing too slowly for any real sparks to catch.

Sherlock breaks away not to breathe, but to yawn, and his head never makes it any further than the crook of John's neck. He mumbles something indistinct.

"Right," John sighs fondly, yawning in his turn. "Bed."


End file.
